One. Through and through, a blessed stone arrowhead beneath the tree root to the far end of the ridge.
Two. Miles suspended in all the water the earth offers while seconds, for once, gear down and step away, giving in. Just this once, in this life.
Three. While spinning in a ramble like a blackbird breaking the morning, even then, more then maybe. Never less. Dark-walking across those words, my fingertips chopping at the places where light once lived. Rambling with my heart slipped from shoulder to sleeve to palm.
Let me count the ways, and count and count and count. I'm better with numbers when your breathing can be heard.